Pedaling air with his foot, Tariq told her about his trip. The peach saplings he had helped his uncle plant. A garden snake he had captured.
This room was where Laila and Tariq did their homework, where they built playing card towers and drew ridiculous portraits of each other.
If it was raining, they leaned on the windowsill, drinking warm, fizzy orange Fanta, and watched the swollen rain droplets trickle down the glass.
“All right, here's one,” Laila said, shuffling. “What goes around the world but stays in a corner?” “Wait.”
Tariq pushed himself up and swung his artificial left leg around. Wincing, he lay on his side, leaning on his elbow.
“Hand me that pillow.” He placed it under his leg. “There. That's better.”
Laila remembered the first time he'd shown her his stump. She'd been six.
With one finger, she had poked the taut, shiny skin just below his left knee.
Her finger had found little hard lumps there, and Tariq had told her they were spurs of bone that sometimes grew after an amputation.
She'd asked him if his stump hurt, and he said it got sore at the end of the day,
when it swelled and didn't fit the prosthesis like it was supposed to, like a finger in a thimble.
And sometimes it gets rubbed. Especially when it's hot. Then I get rashes and blisters, but my mother has creams that help. It's not so bad.”
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